


Hobbit Holocaust

by InkFire_Scribe



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Belladonna Took (mentioned) - Freeform, Character Death, F/M, Female Bilbo Baggins, Grief, Holocaust, The Hobbit is a Woman, Trauma, fem!Bilbo, girl!Bilbo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2019-08-29 22:09:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16752376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkFire_Scribe/pseuds/InkFire_Scribe
Summary: What would happen if the hobbits were treated like chattel? What if the hobbits were a resource to be exploited and disposed of? What if the goblins and orcs worked under a force as charismatic and persuasive as the Third Reich?Inspired by first-hand accounts of the Warsaw Ghetto and labor camps during WWII and the recent passing of dear family, this story is an exploration of grief, trauma, and the desperate need for identity in unstable circumstances.





	1. Grief

When you first see something happen, or when someone first tells you something has happened, there's a space of time during which believing that the thing has actually happened takes effort. Where you don't believe it, but you could if you wanted to. And the less you want to believe a thing has happened, the longer it takes to do so. So while it might take only half a second to believe that all your friends got together to plan a surprise party for your birthday, it might take several minutes to believe that the key you misplaced really isn't in your pocket, and several days to believe that your home is truly being repossessed by people to whom you owe a debt. 

So when Bella saw the blood smeared on the entryway floor and her mother's favorite umbrella abandoned by the front door, she didn't immediately process what it meant. First she tried to deny it. Then she distracted herself from it by cleaning up the mess and returning the umbrella to the stand where it belonged. She spoke with neighbors about where her mother might have 'wandered off to,' and did her very best to simply ignore their pitying looks. 

But there was a single extremely stern rule on Bagshot Row: _Don't talk about it._  

Whether it was a disappearance, a suspicious silence, a sudden cry in the night... no one talked about it. They were the lucky few kept on by the orcs to care for their homes and cook their meals and fetch their rations. None of them wanted to endanger their precious positions. And none of them wanted to admit that they knew what was happening in the rest of the Shire. What was happening there in their own gardens and halls. 

When Raghor called to her impatiently from the kitchen, she knew she was needed. Bella slowly tore herself away from the entryway and forced herself back to the kitchen. But behind her eyes, there was still that blood stain. A splattered puddle at one end, a smear, like something had been dragged, then another small splatter by the threshold. It wasn't hard to imagine what had happened. But she didn't want to. 

He was waiting for her, pointing impatiently at a slab of meat bleeding on the counter. A shudder ran through her at the sight, but she knew better than to hesitate. Raghor's yellow eyes were malignant as they fixed on her, and his talon, dark with filth, swung around to poke her sharply in the chest as she entered. 

"Why isn't my supper ready?" he snarled. 

For a moment, she had no answer. She still had no answer when she opened her mouth to speak. 

"Where is my mother?" The words came out as a thin, sad whisper. There was something wrong, terribly wrong. Not only with her, but with the world. There was something wrong with a world where countless hobbits who would have called each other family turn a blind eye to pain and abuse and death, just to save themselves. There was something wrong with a world where such things happened at all. 

She didn't see it coming, though maybe if she'd been thinking less about the world and more about her immediate surroundings, then things would have turned out a little less painfully. Raghor's hand whipped out, quick as a snake, and struck her hard across the face. His talons sliced deep into her cheek, and she tasted blood. 

"Get cooking," he grunted, eyes chill with casual hatred, "before I decide the cook's a better meal than a servant." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this story as a means to channel and explore my grief over the death of my Nana. It is not likely to be a "happy" story, but I can promise there will be healing and eventually, something that might pass for a happy or at least a bittersweet ending (assuming I get to the end). Updates will be sporadic and short. Thank you for your patience.


	2. A New Thought

She never afterward remembered details of that evening, or that night, or even the following morning.  She just existed, and anything that was accomplished was completely by accident. The hobbit came to herself in the cellar, holding a wedge of cheese in one hand and an old scarf in the other. It made no real sense, but then how much sense was the world supposed to make when her mother wasn't in it anymore? She vaguely remembered the smell of cooking meat, and felt her stomach churn uncomfortably. No. Best not think about it. 

"She is gone," she said aloud, and heard her voice crack, though whether that was from emotion or disuse, she wasn't sure. What she was sure of was the heavy, stiff feeling of her cheek. At some point during the time she didn't remember, someone had bandaged her cheek and coated the inside of her mouth on that side with some greasy stuff to stop the bleeding. 

If she were being silly about it, she might have said that she preferred the taste of blood. She wasn't altogether sure that was true, but it seemed as likely as anything else. 

Slowly, she left the cellar, uncertain of what she was doing until Raghor bellowed at her to "get back with that cheese!" He seemed to be in the kitchen again. Had he ever left? She hurried to him and handed over the cheese, realizing only then that the scarf in her hand had been one of her mother's. The blue one with the green tassels her father had given the old dear for midwinter one year. She was about to wrap it around her own throat when Raghor, in all his tactful wisdom, sneered at her. 

"What're you waiting for? An invitation? Go clean up the dishes." His loathsome yellow eyes followed her as she hastily hung the scarf about her neck and got to work. 

Yes, doubtless, Belladonna Baggins the Elder was gone. If she had been here, she would have been doing the dishes while Bella waited on the table. And it was on days like this, when the orc took it into his head to stay up past noon, that turned out the worst by night, when they ought to have been awake. 

Her hands were quite pruned from the warm water before her master finally went to his bed, and though the dishes were spotlessly clean, the continued to scrub them busily until she heard a coarse snore from the bedroom Raghor had claimed for himself. 

It was no great thing. Just a quiet moment in the kitchen that ought to have been hers. A whiff of the smell of mothballs from the scarf. The tick of the old dwarf-made clock on the mantle. It was such a small thing, that moment, but Bella felt it was the heaviest and most important moment of her life. She sat down on the warm tile, her back against the cabinets, and felt tears run into the bandage on her cheek. It was a messy business, crying, but at least she'd learned to do it silently. 

Why does he deserve to live when my mother is dead? The thought was like a blade, slipping silently into her thoughts and cutting loose other thoughts that followed. Why do I deserve to live? What's stopping me from killing him? They might kill me, too - does it matter? Is it worth it, to avenge her? It was the first time Bella had ever even thought the word "avenge," but the concept had toyed with her existence for as long as she had been under the thumb of Raghor, lieutenant to Garzif, who was styled "Captain of the Hill." 

 

Maybe... just maybe... it was time to do something. 


	3. Doing the Deed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the hobbit has an excellent plan that couldn't possibly go wrong.

The handle of the old kitchen knife was worn smooth by years of use. She thought it might have been part of the set that Grandma Took had given to her mother for her wedding. Half the set was missing, but Bella still remembered them. Dark wood handles, shiny blades, and the smell of oil about them all the time. Her father, sitting beside the hearth and listening to her mother tell stories while he sharpened them one at a time, the scraping metallic sound fading to a quiet ssshtk ssshtk in the background. It was as much a part of her childhood as the click of knitting needles. 

Bella came back to herself with a start. She was standing in the bedroom door. Sprawled on the bed like an unruly dog was the orc, his swarthy skin grimy with the sweat his labor and the grease from his food. Looking at him, she shuddered. From where she stood, there was no reason to hold her breath, but she couldn't help it. She closed her eyes tight, trying to ward off the feeling of the loathsome weight trapping her on her back, the scent of sour sweat and foul breath, the terrible, pawing hands.

With a whimper, she forced herself to open her eyes again, and for a second she could still see his leering face. Then it faded, and she saw he was sleeping, though not as deeply anymore. He was turning over, groping blindly for a blanket. The blade in her hand shook. This was the hardest part. The part where she still technically had a chance to back out and pretend nothing had happened. The chance to rejoin the ranks of Shire sheep that simply obeyed orders and said nothing.

_So what am I? A hobbit, or a sheep?_

She couldn't think about what she would regret. She couldn't think at all. She could only do it... or not.

Refreshing her grip on the knife, Bella tried to steady her hands and approached the bed on silent feet. Nothing can move more silently than a frightened hobbit, not smoke on the wind, not a cloud's shadow. Five steps to the bed. Was she really, really sure about this? Three steps. She could still turn back, there was still time. One step. If he woke now, he might kill her. Then at least it would be over. Bella stood over the bed that had once belonged to her parents. Raghor had shredded the mattress and her mother's handmade quilt. It was more nest than bed, now, and that was something that stuck with her. She fixated on it, so she hardly noticed as the first well of blood darkened his filthy skin, as it sprayed against her hands, as he shrieked and clawed at her, as the blade grated horribly against bone.

He had ruined her mother's good feather mattress. Mr. Baggins would have been deeply offended. Maybe even angry.

And quite suddenly, it was all over. Her forearms hurt. A brief inspection betrayed deep gashes where Raghor had flailed at her. Feathers stuck to her skin where it was wet with blood.

Tears welled up again and spilled over, pulling a ragged sob from her on their way out. Bella nearly laughed, because she knew she wasn't crying because she'd just killed something, and it wasn't even because she didn't know what to do next. It was because the bed was ruined - even more now than when she'd started, because of the blood stains.

Bella rubbed her eyes and felt the wet, sticky blood smear across her forehead.

Revulsion rose in her throat as that fact hit her like a ton of bricks, and Bella turned quickly away from the nasty sight. She didn't have a choice. She simply must clean up. Maybe not a proper bath, no time for that, but at least a good scrubbing. Then she would pack a small bag. She would have to leave before someone found the body. 


	4. No Good Deed

Just going on errands. That's all. Going on errands. Looking busy, looking like she was supposed to be here. Yup this was totally going to work. Except for the part where it definitely wasn't. Bella was having a very hard time with the whole "not panicking" part of her plan. Her mind was too full of... well, everything. Nothing was sitting still in her head, and it felt more and more like she had just decided to do this because she couldn't see another way out - like if she'd just thought longer or approached it more cautiously, then she wouldn't be in this position. 

Bella hated second-guessing herself. Or anyone else, really. The world was ever so much easier to deal with when her first impressions were correct.

Unfortunately, her first impression of the lane she'd just turned onto that would lead her out toward Stock and the Golden Perch (assuming it was even still in business) was that the lane was occupied by a small company of goblins. She didn't see an orc overseer, but that didn't always signify. Orcs might lurk out of sight and wait for their underlings to bungle something so they could take pleasure in punishing them.

So rather than trying to pass them without being noticed (which was unlikely, even if it was evening and the sun hadn't yet set) she swung sharply into the smith's forge, pretending to look hard at a set of knives hanging on the wall. They were kitchen knives, rather like the set her mother had used... only with less orc blood on them. Bella swallowed hard and searched for something else to look intently at. Horse shoes. Sure. Why not? She'd... seen a horse. Once. More ponies than horses in this part of the world. Sometimes the elves rode horses, though. 

"Looking for something'?" The question nearly scared her witless. After she'd recovered her balance from leaping nearly out of her skin, she looked over her shoulder for the source of the voice. There was the smith, a burly dwarf with waves of dark hair caught up in a loose tail at the nape of his neck. He had a deep, rumbly kind of voice, and Bella imagined she might even think it was pleasant to listen to if she hadn't been in such a state. 

To her utter horror, when she opened her mouth to reply, trying desperately to think of some believable excuse, a hysterical giggle came out. It wasn't even the sort of laugh she might otherwise not mind - it was a shrill, very Lobelia-esque giggle. Bella wanted to die of shame. It took a moment to regain something like composure, and then she cleared her throat to try again. 

"Thank you. I just..." Her brain fumbled again, and she glanced toward the entrance. She could see the shadow of one of the goblins as he loafed about in the lane, waiting for the sun to go down properly. The dwarf must have seen her glance because he spoke again, his voice pitched just a little lower than before, if that was even possible. 

"I think you might find something to your taste at the back. Here, let me show you." 

A wild thought crossed her mind - that he might have something rather more primal in mind, and that he was going to take advantage of her vulnerable situation. Slowly, trying to walk steadily so he wouldn't notice, she reached under her jacket to the knife she had tucked in her belt. There was another one in her bag. Just in case. 

So when they rounded the corner at the back of the shop and into what was very clearly his living quarters, she whipped out the knife, cutting into her belt in the process, and menaced him with it, tense to the point of shaking all over. 

The dwarf lifted his hands, releasing her and showing her he was unarmed. Then, silently, he pointed behind her. Bella was unwilling to turn her back on him. Cautiously, she shuffled to one side and stole a quick glance. There was a door in the corner. Of course. A back door. She felt silly. Lowering the knife, she blushed. "Sorry about that. Little jumpy." 

"You've got a right," said the dwarf quietly. "But... before you go... where are you heading?" 

"I don't know." 

There was a slight pause. Very slight. Almost as though he didn't have to think about it. "Why not come with us? We could use a hobbit with a backbone." 


	5. The One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I made a bigger whoops than I thought I did with the last chapter. I counted the right number of chapters, but a week ago, I posted chapter 4 when I meant to post chapter 3. 
> 
> So to make up for that, here's chapter 5, and chapter 3 is now the correct chapter.

The dwarf put a finger to his lips, as though he weren't making enough noise for three. Bella followed him cautiously still gripping her knife as they passed from one shrub to another, to a small tree to a grassy hummock. They were definitely moving away from the main road, but she wasn't at all sure where they were going yet. He looked back at her for the umpteenth time, and the hobbit wondered if he was trying to tell her to be quiet, or if he was actually trying to see if she was really still there. 

"In here," he whispered, and pointed toward one of the farmhouses that had been abandoned when the goblins took over. Quickly, she ducked inside, grateful to be out of plain sight, but concerned that if she delayed any longer, the sun would set and then the goblins would be out in force. Of course, it didn't occur to her until after she had entered the farmhouse and heard others breathing loudly inside that this might very well be a trap.

A bolt of pure fear raced through her, and the knife jerked up reflexively as the smith ran into her from behind. His hands closed around her arms, and with a yelp of fear, she whipped around, breaking free and slicing one of his hands open in one jerky movement.

He grunted a curse and clutched his bleeding hand. "Careful with that," he growled. "There's no reason to be attacking any of us. We're on your side."

Bella shivered, not sure she could believe him. She wanted to - obviously, or she wouldn't be here - but believing was a hard thing.

"Thorin? Who's yer friend?" That voice was even deeper and rougher than the smith's, with an accent she silently identified as "far north," but nothing more specific than that.

"A halfling. We can't afford to keep smuggling them out one at a time. We have to do something to stop this whole thing - and I think this one can help."

"You mean like the wizard said? With the sneaking?" That voice was younger than either Smith or Northern, and as Bella's heartbeat slowly calmed, she tried to get a handle on how many of them there were. By the light coming in through the door, she could see at least a half-dozen pairs of eyes. Probably more of them. Ten, maybe.

"What's all this about?" she asked, and hated that her voice was shaking as she spoke.

"Exactly what I just said. We need to get rid of the goblins for good. And you're going to help us. You do want to get rid of them, don't you?" Smith was very close to her. Close enough that she could feel his breath as he spoke.

"That's a trick question," she grumbled, but it felt like her insides were twisting into knots while her skin was freezing solid on the outside. "I already killed one. I can't go back." That hadn't been what he asked. And saying the words... her stomach heaved, and Bella turned aside, putting out a hand to steady herself against the wall. A trickle of sour, sharp liquid leaked out of her mouth, but there was nothing in her stomach to come up. Not anymore.

"If he's made his first kill," rumbled Northern, "then maybe there's hope for 'im. I doubt it, though."

"You didn't see the look in his face," Smith insisted, and put a hand on Bella's shoulder. She wondered vaguely why they thought she was male. "I've been a good judge of strength long enough for you lot to trust me. Just trust me a little longer. I think this halfling is the one that can help us, like the wizard said."


	6. Should You Choose to Accept It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the author makes unnecessary references.

"What wizard?" Bella felt her voice shake, and wasn't sure what she could do about it anymore. It seemed that since seeing the blood on the entryway floor (spatter, smear, spatter - it had taken only warm water to clean it up, and she couldn't understand why the stain had stayed on her memory, but not on the floor) she hadn't been able to stop shaking. Not her hands, not her knees, not her voice. At this point, she was simply resigned to shaking until something changed. In the dark, it was hard to see anything, but someone offered her something pale, and when she took it, she found it was a handkerchief. Whispering her thanks, she wiped her mouth. 

"He calls himself Gandalf, and he's an enemy to the goblins and their kind." She noticed that while Smith was speaking, the others in the farmhouse, however many there were, stayed perfectly silent, as though he were someone of great importance. "If you're an enemy of the goblins as well, and I think you are, then you might help us put an end to this once and for all." 

Someone shoved a wooden cup into her hands, and water sloshed onto her sleeves before she knew what was what. "How?" She cautiously lifted the cup to her lips, and was grateful to find it was still half full. She drank thirstily, glad to rinse the nasty taste of bile from her mouth. 

"By killin' 'em." growled Northern, and someone must had hit him, because he grunted a moment later. 

"Be quiet, Dwal. Yer worse than a mercenary." That voice was older, but affected the same rolling brogue as Northern. Bella mentally labeled that one "Old," and wondered how many would speak before she saw any of their faces. 

"We don't have a large enough force to fight a war," rumbled Smith quietly, "but we can cause plenty trouble for the goblins anyway. That's why we need someone who's better at stealth than a dwarf." 

Bella held the empty cup and closed her eyes. "You want my help?" 

"Yes."

She took a deep breath. "And this will help the others? It'll help get rid of the orcs?" 

"Yes." 

She gripped the cup tighter, until her fingers ached and her hands stopped shaking, just for a moment. The smell of raw meat, the feeling of Raghor's fetid breath, the sun on blood on hardwood. The whispers, the hollow cheeks, the glassy, frightened eyes. Bella reached back in her memory. Back and back and back. Back before the cold and her father's cough and the glitter of moonlight on goblin spears. Back to the smell of birthday cake, the music from the band on May Day as they danced under the party tree, the lightning bugs in her mother's best jars on a summer evening, the taste of hot tea after a walk in the snow, the thrilling weightlessness of been tossed onto the bed by her father as he laughed. 

She grasped those memories and clung to them. They felt so distant now, but she hadn't doubted who she was then, and what she was capable of. Whatever her parents needed from her, she could do, if only they showed her how. And they never failed to show her what they needed. Never. 

"If they need me... I'll do it." Bella opened her eyes, and caught the blurry reflection of silvery light off her own tears. Somehow, it didn't seem weak to cry. Not this time. "Just show me what you need me to do." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank you guys for hanging on this long. Ridiculous deadlines have been squashing me for a while. That's done now, though, and I'll be able to start posting again. Woot!


	7. Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. You wouldn't believe how busy life has been. Or maybe you would, knowing that I'm a writer, editor, game developer, and kennel tech. *shrugs*   
> Anyway, here's the next chapter. I'll keep plugging away at this until it's done.

Maybe it hadn't been her smartest of her recent ideas, but she couldn't bring herself to sleep when she knew there would be nothing but nightmares waiting for her. Bella sat with her back pressed tight against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest. Everything ached from prolonged tension, but she couldn't just relax. If she did, the nightmares would come. She could sense them waiting for her. It was good that the dwarves snored loudly - it helped keep her awake. 

In the darkness, she could smell sawdust, sweat, and a hint of rain. The crack under the door was wide enough to admit a decent breath of wind, and the hobbit focused on that as the dwarves dropped off one by one. They had tried to talk to her, but she hadn't heard what they said. Not properly. Maybe they had just given up after a while. 

Blood. Every time she closed her eyes, she thought of it. The way it smelled. How it looked. Why was it always so dark when it was on the floor, but it turned scarlet when it was on her skin or clothes? Dark like violence, then bright like guilt. Had she been scared? Had her mother known what was going to happen? Bella's imagination started to fill in the details, though she did her utmost to think of something else. She couldn't stop it. She couldn't shut her ears to the broken sobbing she imagined came from her mother. 

When she woke, it was to the grey light of dawn and the gentle hand on her shoulder. 

"Master Hobbit? It's time to eat. The day's work is ahead of us." 

Her body weighed twice as much as it ought to, she was sure, her limbs leaden as she tried to sit up. Her throat was sore, raw and hot as memories of the previous day invaded her mind all over again, and before she'd had time even to get to her feet, there were tears dripping down her face. 

"It's alright, lad." The kindly voice was still nearby, and she realized the hand was still on her shoulder, too. She looked up into his face in the faint dawn light coming through the window, and saw that the dwarf leaning over her was elderly, with a long white beard and a shock of white hair over his broad forehead. His eyes were kindly and watery blue, 

"They killed my mother," she whispered, and received a compassionate squeeze on her shoulder. 

"We've all lost someone, lad. We know how it is." 

It wasn't hard to believe it, but somehow it didn't make anything better. The feelings were still hard, and the weight was still crushing. But... it was a little better, knowing that they knew. 

They had something like porridge to eat, but it was cold. Something warm would have been better, but Bella wasn't about to complain. Not when things might have been so much worse. After all, she could have been dead. Or... or still with Raghor. 

"Did they start looking for me last night?" she asked, looking around at the others when her porridge was about half gone. The kindly one with the white beard was probably been the one she'd called "Old" in her head the previous night. "They must have discovered that Raghor is... dead." That was hard to say the word, after so many months (or had it been years?) where it had been something no one talked about. 

"Raghor?" The speaker had Northern's voice, and was very tall, beefy, and balding. But that was something she thought she would understand. His voice was very deep and rumbly - he had to be big. Big enough to fit the voice. The people who had voices that didn't match their size where always a thing that tried to break her mind. "Sounds like an orc name." 

"Yes. He was the one that took over my hole and... and he... well.... he's gone now." She didn't want even to think about what else he'd done, let alone talk about it. The others seemed to understand. There were twelve of them in the little farm house, which was all one room.

"Haven't seen any change in 'em yet. But Thorin oughtta be here soon. He'll let ye know." 

Bella hesitated to ask, but thought it was probably important. "Who's Thorin?" 

There was a moment of stillness, then one of the younger dwarves let out a muffled bark of laughter. The white-bearded one snorted quietly to himself. "Just like 'im not te introduce 'imself. Ye'd think he was raised in a mine - no manners." 


	8. Interrupted Introductions

"Thorin is the fellow who brought you in yesterday," volunteered one of the younger dwarves, and she saw the white gleam of his grin in the shadowed farmhouse. "He's been a smith in the Shire for, what? Almost six months now?" 

"Seven," said another voice, almost exactly like the first, but slightly lighter. "My name's Kili, by the way. This is my brother, Fili. We've been here as long as Thorin has. Dwalin - the bald gruff one - came next. The nice one with the white beard is Balin - he's civilized, unlike the rest of us." Before introductions could get any farther, someone hit the speaker, and he stopped with a grumble. 

"We're not usually all in the same place," explained Balin, collecting empty bowls. "We came together last night for a meeting, but... things came up." Bella suspected the "things" that had come up were mainly her arrival, but she appreciated them not saying so. 

"Speak of the devil." From his voice, it was Kili, but she could see him stand and move toward the door. In a moment, she identified a sound she'd been hearing more and more clearly for the last few seconds, but hadn't yet understood - it was the quick approach of someone in boots running toward them, but not the heavy iron-shod or hob-nail boots the goblins and orcs used. Rather, it was the hollow clomp clomp sound of leather boots. It had to be a dwarf, then, because it was heavy enough to be a man, and neither elves nor hobbits made so much noise, even when running. 

In another second, the smith appeared in the doorway, breathing heavily. 

"Scatter," he ordered, and immediately turned to leave. Bella understood just enough to know that they had to run. The dwarves were springing to their feet, grabbing bags, drawing knives. Bella followed suit, yanking her bag up onto her shoulders. The smith was already gone when she looked at the door again, but her memory provided the image of his bandaged hand against the door frame. She had hurt him. She had cut him. 

Before the hobbit could think too much about it, she was flanked by young dwarves, a blond one on her left and a dark-haired one on her right. 

"Stick with us. We'll keep you outta trouble." That was the dark-haired one, who'd called himself Kili. If she remembered no one else, she was likely not to forget him. 


	9. The Boys

They marched her quickly away from the farmhouse. One had a bag, the other an ax. Her own knapsack was heavy on her back as they hurried her across a fallow field and over a small hill. Somewhere in the distance, there were voices shouting. Bella didn't know what was going on, but she suspected, feared even, that the goblins were executing a fresh pogrom; eliminating the elderly, ill, or injured from the population. It seemed to happen once every few weeks, but she knew it couldn't be that frequent, no matter how it felt to her. If it had been, there would be no hobbits left. 

But even as her reason assured her it couldn't possibly be so bad as she thought, the hobbit's heart pounded in her chest like a panicked rabbit, threatening to break bone as it escaped from the cage of her flesh. From beyond the range of her limited vision, a wail rose up, many voices lifted in terror and pain. The sound was like a physical blow, and Bella jerked. It was good that the dwarves were each holding her by an arm, because without their support, she would have fallen. 

Neither of them were smiling anymore. Their expressions were grim, hard as steel and tight with something like the pain she could feel in her chest - like her heart would shatter under the weight of that horrid sound. 

"What-?" she gasped. No, she didn't need to ask. She knew what it was. She had heard it before. But always before, she had been safe in her smial, and always the arms of her mother would close around her, and Belladonna the Elder would whisper in her ear that it was alright, that it would all turn out, that there was a sun behind the clouds. 

Now the arms that held her were hard with muscle, and they smelled of leather and sweat, not of flour and moist earth and goats milk soap. 

"Not now," hissed one. Dark hair. Bright eyes. Afraid? 

"Stay quiet, lad." Blond. Thicker beard. What right did he have to call her lad? She had to be twice his age if she was a day. 

Still, she realized their wisdom and her need. If the goblins found them, they would only be added to the line for the block. Their heads would roll into the basket. Their blood would spray like mist from a fountain. And nothing would change. The ax would continue to swing. The orcs would jeer, the goblins would laugh, and tomorrow would dawn to more fear and more pain and more death. They would achieve nothing in death if they were caught now. Nothing.

 

But.

 

Bella closed her eyes and swallowed a broken sob, trying to get her feet under her again. When had they started to drag her? Did they even think she was worth it? How could she be? Her toes caught on the rough earth, a stone scraped along her tough sole, then she was walking again. Jogging, really. But her feet were moving her along, instead of being carried by the two strong lads that flanked her. 

She still couldn't think straight, but her tears dried, and in a minute she could see the ground in front of her again. 

"Where?" she gasped, doing her best to keep her question at a whisper. There were still plenty of reasons to stay quiet. 

"Wherever we can hide," hissed the blond, and his brother whipped his head from side to side, looking for someplace the goblins wouldn't look. 

"The pond." It was all she could think of. When she was younger, they had called it "Bullfrog Pond," because that was about the only thing that lived there. And every summer the bullfrogs would spawn, and every year they would sing their deafening chorus. It seemed it had been a very long time since she had been there. The dark brother looked at her, and with difficulty, she freed one arm and pointed them in the right direction. 

Just as if nothing had changed, the banks of the pond were as damp and muddy as she remembered, and there were no footprints in the soft mud. Neither boot nor soft hobbit foot had trod here, and the boys were as careful as pussy-cats in not leaving any track. Under a cluster of willow trees seemed an obvious hiding place, but there was a thicket near them that had a couple largish rabbit trails leading into its depths. The blond forced his way in first, then the dark one, and they hissed at Bella to follow them up, pulling the thick, thorny vines back into place behind them. They would be safe here. 


End file.
